


It's the Thought That Counts

by Sherlock1110, sherlockian4evr



Series: Sherlock and Mycroft Fluff [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Romance, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not long after Sherlock and John start going out, Sherlock reads/sees (maybe some random romance film/whatevers) that it's supposed to be romantic to make a dinner with candles for his significant other (John :D)</p><p>However, somehow it all goes wrong, dinner gets burnt and Sherlock's all stressed out that he's ruined it for Johnnyboy D:</p><p>However! John heals all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the Thought That Counts

Sherlock frowned down at the women's magazine he had picked up from Mrs. Hudson's counter. On the cover was the blurb 'How to Bring Romance to Your Relationship'. He wrinkled his nose and flipped through the magazine until he found the article. It purported the important place romance played in a healthy relationship and gave tips on how to 'keep romance alive'.

At first the detective had rolled his eyes, but soon he had settled down in Mrs. Hudson's chair and was reading the article, taking it in, word for word.

As he read, Sherlock made notes in his Mind Palace. Candles were a must as was a home cooked meal. The article recommended lingerie, but the detective rather thought John would be less than eager to see him in a lacy negligee. He thought of trying it anyway… but no. That would be too much for a first attempt. Far too much.

Checking Mrs. Hudson still wasn't about, he wandered back up to the flat and straight into the kitchen.

Sherlock wasn't a chef, not by any means, but he'd watched John cook often enough. He rummaged through his Mind Palace for memories of his boyfriend doing just that. What he came up with was lasagne. It seemed simple enough, layers of pasta, meat sauce and cheese. Surely they had the required ingredients. Rooting through the cupboards found that they did. He ignored the recipe book on the side and set to it. Making it up as he went along.

As Sherlock started layering the ingredients, he realised that he had no idea as to the proper measurements to use. His Mind Palace memory of John making lasagne seemed to focus equally on the doctor's expression as he worked and his strong hands. He shrugged and made a guess. It was hardly chemistry. How much could it hurt if he was a bit off with an ingredient or two? He didn't see a problem with too much meat. John never complained, after all. He did make sure to brown off the mince first, he remembered John making a big point of it before.

Satisfied with his creation, Sherlock shoved it in the oven. Mind Palace John set the oven for 190°C and said it would have to cook for two and a half hours. The detective didn't have that long, so he set the oven for 220°C.

With that he went and collapsed on the sofa. Then immediately sprung to his feet. They needed candles. Candles were good. It didn't matter about the oven, did it? Instead of sitting and relaxing he took off out the door, grabbing his coat as he went.

At the store, he was faced with numerous candles. Short candles. Tall ones. Slim. Fat. Scented. Unscented. White. Coloured. Not knowing what else to do, he filled his trolley with one of each. Two of the ones he especially liked. Three of the orange ones. He liked orange.

He went to push the trolley straight out the door when a large beefy security guard appeared, dropping a hand on his shoulder. “Nice try, son.”

Sherlock turned a glare on the man. He looked him up and down. “You had ambitions of joining the police force, but were rejected after multiple applications. Now you abuse your position and terrorise children by flashing your meaningless badge in their faces.”

The guard was unimpressed. “Maybe so, but I'm not the one caught stealing.” He dragged Sherlock to the manager's office.

Sherlock huffed. “I forgot!” He exclaimed before they got there. He glanced at the clock on the wall, he was really pushing it for time. He pulled out his wallet and brandished his card. “Look. See here, I'll pay. I merely don't go shopping much.”

“Nice try,” the guard said.

“Then call New Scotland Yard. Ask for Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He'll vouch for me.” Sherlock hoped he would and didn't use the opportunity to take the piss.

The officer just rolled his eyes.

“The police will be here to deal with you shortly.” The manager said, quite pleasantly.

Not seeing an alternative Sherlock lunged for a couple of orange candles still in the trolley and then took off out the door and out of the store. After dodging down an alley and over a few blocks, he knew he had lost any pursuit that might have followed. Raising a hand, he hailed a cab and sank into the back seat gratefully. Why the hell did he make stupid mistakes like that? He walked straight passed the tills and out the door. He couldn't have been more obvious.

It was all John's fault. Whenever he thought of his ex-army doctor, his brain seemed to melt and drain out his ears. In the past, that would have bothered him, but the way John made him feel, it was worth it.

He just hoped to God if he got caught for the whole fiasco it was after tonight. Or at least after they'd eaten. He'd deal with the consequences then.

When the cab pulled up, he threw some cash at the driver. As soon as he stepped into 221 he smelt smoke. He was sure glad his land lady was out wherever she was. Running up the stairs and into the flat, Sherlock went straight to the kitchen. When he opened the oven, flames shot out. He grabbed the fire extinguisher that John insisted be kept on hand and used it to put out the flames.

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs Sherlock grumbled as he kicked the unit. “Bollocks!” He knew that little forgetful session he had at the store would cost him.

“Sherlock - what the hell is going on?”

With a bit of white foam hanging from his curls, Sherlock wheeled around and glared at one DI. He had learned years ago that the best defence was a good offence. “What do you want, Lestrade?!”

Undaunted, Greg gave the detective an exasperated look. “Would you care to explain the phone call I received a few minutes ago?”

“I would not. And I'm kind of busy.”

“I don't give a shit. Shoplifting Sherlock, really? What are you, 12?”

“Lest-”

“Don't. I think you need to go and sit down. I'll be calling John and your brother.”

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for an escape route.

“Now, Sherlock,” the DI ordered. He held his cuffs up. “We can do this the easy way. Or the fun way.”

“Fine.” Sherlock was angry now. He'd only been trying to do something nice for John. He would have paid for the candles... eventually. The detective grabbed his violin and started plucking at it petulantly. He sat in the armchair in a right huff while he tried to listen to the DI making phone calls, but he'd stepped out of the flat.

When he was done Greg appeared in front of him. “And as if to top it all off, you told the manager I would vouch for your stealing!”

Sherlock dropped his violin to his lap and rolled his eyes. “I wasn't stealing. I was in a hurry. You know I don't do the shopping thing. I just forgot. You could have explained that.”

“Sherlock, no one, not even you, walks passed a dozen check outs and half a dozen members of staff without realising they are there.”

“Boring.” Besides it would have taken too long. He resumed plucking his violin.

Greg walked over and opened a window. “What experiment were you running that you caught the place on fire again?”

An angry twang of the violin was Sherlock's only reply.

The older man sighed. “You really aren't helping yourself.”

“I was cooking.”

Greg laughed. “Yeah, that's pretty damn clear, mate. Your oven was on fire.”

“I meant-”

Sherlock cut off as the downstairs door slammed. The pace of the running footsteps had to be John. An angry John.

“Sherlock Holmes! Why did Greg call me away from the surgery with a tale about you shoplifting and setting the flat on fire?” John was way passed angry.

Sherlock didn't care. He was the victim here. “Because he's become an interfering prat now that he's dating my brother.”

“That's not a good enough answer, Sherlock, you know that.”

The detective got to his feet and dropped his violin on the seat he had vacated. “I was cooking,” he repeated.

John walked into the kitchen and looked at the foam covered, blackened mess. “What was this supposed to be?”

“Lasagne.”

“You don't cook.” John poked at the mess with a fork.

“It was supposed to be romantic.” Sherlock slapped his hand over his mouth, horrified at what he had said.

John turned around with a slight smirk on his face.

“You don't cook,” he repeated. “And why did you go out of the house knowing Mrs. H is out while leaving the oven on?”

The door downstairs opened. “You actually called my brother?”

“Of course I did.” Greg shook his head in disbelief. “What was I supposed to do, not tell my boyfriend that his brother was shoplifting?”

“I had to get back before the lasagne burned,” the detective complained.

“Judging by the lingering smoke, that went swimmingly well, brother-mine.” Mycroft leaned against the door frame and gave his brother a scathing look.

“So I wanted to do something nice. How is that a crime?”

Mycroft frowned. “That isn't. Shoplifting is. And then running away from the law. That is too.”

“Oh come on, my brother is you and you are the British Government, petty shoplifting is hardly going to-”

“Shut it, Sherlock,” John grumbled.

“Brother-mine, what brought this excess of... stupidity about?” Mycroft asked seriously.

Just then, Greg started laughing. He laughed so hard, he thought he might have pulled a muscle. Waving the women's magazine in the air, he pointed it at Sherlock.

“Oh Sherlock…” John smiled softly. “You really were trying to do something… more than good, weren't you?”

The detective didn't answer.

“Alright, you two, clear off.” John pointed at the door.

“But-” Greg began.

“No buts. Fix it with the shop. Please.” John gave the two men firm, but imploring looks.

After a brief, silent exchange, Mycroft and Greg left the flat, leaving the younger couple alone.

“You're a muppet, Sherlock, you know that?”

“I was trying to be 'romantic'.”

“Didn't work, huh?”

The taller man pouted. “Obviously.”

John grasped his boyfriend by the wrists. “I don't want a fancy dinner and candles from you.” He went up on his tiptoes and kissed Sherlock's pout.

“But I wanted to. It's what people put in those magazines.”

“It's what straight people do. And normal people. We are neither straight nor normal.”

Sherlock frowned.

“You run after murderers and I follow. That's how we show each other our love. And Angelo's of course.”

“Angelo's?” Sherlock perked up.

“Yes, you git. Angelo's. What I find romantic is you taking me where we first didn't eat together.” John smiled at his feeble joke. “And you deducing everyone in sight until I'm laughing so hard I can't breathe. Then we walk back here, enjoying the evening and maybe making Mrs. Hudson blush at the sounds she hears from upstairs.”

“I'll grab my jacket then, shall I?”

John smirked and then pecked him on the cheek. “You do that, babe.”


End file.
